


Ace O'Neill De-Worms an X-Treme Problem by Tenaya

by tenaya



Series: Ace O'Neill [4]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Commentary, Gen, Humor, Parody, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-10
Updated: 2001-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaya/pseuds/tenaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ace O'Neill bravely faces a pivotal moment and saves the day. It is set during the episode, "Wormhole X-treme!"  Part four of the Ace O'Neill Series, but it diverts quite a bit in tone from the rest of the segments, and is not slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ace O'Neill De-Worms an X-Treme Problem by Tenaya

**Author's Note:**

> This series was written to illustrate a point about Mary Sues. It contains slash, and even worse, humor. I'd like to thank the makers of Red Dwarf for their unique influence on this series.

#### ACE O'NEILL SERIES: IV

Colonel Jack O'Neill was a man of action. Tall and lean, his rugged good looks turned heads and garnered frank admiration wherever he went. Career military, he had dedicated his life to the service of his country. He was well–trained and strong, but his physical abilities paled against the strength of his love of his country, the Air Force, and the extraordinary people he was honored to serve beside.

And nothing so offended him as when any of those groups was disrespected. Colonel O'Neill was a man of action and it was, in his judgment, high time to act. Enough was enough.

He stood straight and proud on a sound stage in Burnaby, British Columbia, the creases on his uniform sharp enough to flay skin. His piercing dark eyes watched hawk–like as his final target wandered unknowingly into range. It had been difficult to arrange the presence of all these men here at the same time without showing his hand, but it was finally done. He slipped his hand inside a pocket and hit the send button on a small radio in a predetermined signal: once, twice, thrice.

Suddenly, the sound stage was inundated with grim faced men wearing Air Force uniforms. SG–2, 6, 10 and 11 and a dozen SFs poured through every entrance and around every corner. Armed with zats and P90s, they herded the cast and crew of WORMHOLE X–TREME! into the center of the set.

Confused and frightened mutterings filled the air. "What's going on? Who are these people? Who the hell put all these extras on the call sheet today?"

Standing beside a table filled with donuts and sandwiches, Teal'c tore off the supposedly comic white hat that concealed his tattoo. Pulling a zat from beneath an undisturbed arrangement of celery sticks, cauliflower and parsley, he roared, "Quiet!"

The sudden silence was complete and total. No one so much as even breathed. This was partly due to Teal'c's fierce manner, but also due to their captive's fear of directors. It was a sound stage, after all.

O'Neill brought his radio to his lips. "Carter? Daniel? All clear."

The two scientists strode forward looking tailored and trim despite the casual civilian clothes they were wearing. Major Sam Carter was in the lead, warily scanning the room, her zat held at the ready. Dr. Daniel Jackson followed in her wake, a clipboard thick with papers tucked neatly beneath his arm. They stopped at Colonel O'Neill's side.

"Let's do it," said O'Neill, brisk with purpose.

While Daniel flipped through his papers, Jack started the separation process. "You four there," he said, gesturing at the actors. "You're free to go, but you might find it beneficial to stick around. Find a seat over there if you want to stay."

Eyes wide, the four cast members scuttled nervously to an area behind the circle of armed men. If things got dangerous, well, they wanted to be close enough to see it all. Good fight scenes were hard to choreograph.

O'Neill scanned the room. As his piercing gaze fell on them, each man shifted guiltily as feelings of unworthiness rose up within him, for anyone would feel inadequate when evaluated by Colonel Jack O'Neill. He cleared his throat. "Let me explain what's going to happen here today. Some of you here have been adversely impacting the smooth operations of the SGC and the morale of its personnel. We are here to rectify this situation."

A dark–haired man in a beige shirt spoke up. "You're just fictional characters; you can't do anything to us," he said defensively.

"Mister?"

"Wrong. Tad Wrong. Executive producer and writer," Daniel supplied.

"Ah," drawled O'Neill, his eyebrows lifting a bit as a predatory smile curled his lips.

"You can't do anything to us," Wrong repeated.

"Ordinarily, that would be true, but you've made a fatal error. Instead of producing an outstanding episode for your one–hundredth show, you've indulged in a base urge to flatter and amuse yourselves. You've produced a show with an inane plot that only exists to put yourselves on camera. By doing so, you have entered _our_ reality. You can eat here, get bruised here, bleed, even die here."

"You're lying," Wrong spat.

"Wrong, Wrong," Sam growled. "He's right and you'd know that if you or your staff ever bothered to acquire a rudimentary understanding of science." If looks could kill, Wrong et al would've been vaporized.

Eager for action, O'Neill leaned back on his heels. "Let's get 'em sorted, Daniel."

Daniel scrutinized the crowd then pointed to three men with his pen. "Robert C. Superduper, N. John Smythe and Ron Wilworkersoon. Please step forward." He leaned forward and whispered a few words in O'Neill's ear.

"Right," said O'Neill, waiting until the nervous men gathered together in a cluster. "You'll be escorted off the lot to a waiting car. It'll take you to a house near the campus of the University of British Columbia where you will be sequestered for a period of weeks…or months. For the duration of your stay, you will be tutored in all the basic sciences, history, and archeology. The length of your stay will be determined entirely by how quickly you learn."

The men had the good graces to bow their heads in shame. They knew that they could only bluff for so long before reality came by and smacked them in the ass. They were smart enough that they counted themselves fortunate that a man as wise as Colonel Jack was the one to set their feet upon the higher road.

"Gentlemen?" O'Neill gestured for a pair of guards to escort them out of the building.

"Who's next, Daniel?"

"Mr. Bank Golfin, would you please step forward?" Daniel said, a look of distaste furrowing his near perfect brow. "He's the man who signs the paychecks."

A dark–haired man in a dark suit stepped forward, his status within the group made plain by the yellow power tie he wore. "Look, Jack…May I call you, Jack? I like what you've done. Those boys will be the better for—"

O'Neill leaned forward and gripped the man by the lapels. "A word of advice. Next time you've got the urge to see a young lady dressed in a skin tight rubber suit, do it on your own time with your own money, you pervert." With a push, he let him go. "And the name's Colonel O'Neill to you. Now get the hell out of my sight." O'Neill motioned to SG–6. "Major Griff, call him a cab and send him to the airport."

SG–6 rushed forward at O'Neill's pronouncement and hustled the man from the building.

"Directors Peter DeLusional and Sparkin Would." Daniel announced, casting a worried glance at Sam Carter. "They're—"

"I know what they've done, Daniel," O'Neill interrupted as he paced in front of them.

"Excuse me," DeLusional said. "We're just directors. All we do is film what's in the script; camera angles, mood lighting…technical stuff, really. We've always been careful to film you all in a very complimentary way."

O'Neill stopped and stared at them, carefully placing himself between them and his fiery 2IC. "That's pretty much right, and ordinarily I'd have no problem with your work…except for one thing."

"Putting ourselves in front of the camera? We can stop that."

"We meant no harm."

Carter harrumphed and leaned around O'Neill, activating her zat. It sang with energy as it popped into its ready–to–fire position. She looked eager to use it, too.

O'Neill raised his eyebrows. "No harm? Really? What do you call it then when you take a courageous officer and a brilliant scientist like Carter here and reduce her importance to the storyline to being nothing more than a love interest for her commanding officer? In your minds, does she truly exist solely to validate the virility of her CO and act as an over–educated, slightly dangerous accessory to said officer? And such a relationship with her immediate commanding officer would be — and I shouldn't have to remind you of this incidentally — highly improper and unethical."

"But you belong together!" the two directors sighed in unison.

"No, no we don't! Steak and eggs go together. Beer and pizza go together."

"It's disrespectful to them both," Daniel cut in, trying to diffuse the tension and maybe save some lives.

"And you need to stop it," ordered O'Neill, sternly.

"Like yesterday," growled Sam.

"Well, if that's the way you feel…."

"We do!" Jack and Sam chorused together.

DeLusional and Would smiled sappily.

"Uh, guys," murmured Daniel. "Ixnay on the eway oodays."

"What the hell are you…Oh for crying out loud! Carter, do what you have to do to get their attention. Show 'em we mean business."

"Gladly, sir." With great precision and enjoyment, she shot them both with her zat. They hadn't quite finished flopping about like bass on twenty pound test line before SG–11 hauled them away.

The cast of WORMHOLE X–TREME! applauded wildly behind them.

Only three men were left. Two stood tall with their heads up, clothed in matching leather jackets with WORMHOLE X–TREME! emblazoned boldly across the backs. If they were afraid, they hid it well.

"Greengolf and Wrong, front and center," ordered O'Neill. He walked up to the younger man. "Tad Wrong," he drawled, staring hard at the man. Eventually, the executive looked down at his expensive shoes.

Quick as a zat blast, O'Neill's hand streaked out and delivered a sharp nanny whack to the side of Wrong's head.

"Ow!"

O'Neill lifted his hand again threateningly. "I'll give you something to 'ow' about! What the hell were you thinking?" he barked.

"About what?"

Whack!

"Ow! Stop that!"

"I will…as soon as you explain to me why you decided to spend an entire episode on a load of self–indulgent bullshit."

"It was our one–hundredth episode," Wrong said, sullenly. "We deserved some recognition."

"You get recognition by doing your job well and turning out high quality scripts; you get squat for gratuitous self–promotion and self–aggrandizement."

"Hey! That was a good episode!"

Whack! "No, it wasn't."

"Ow!"

"Let me explain to you what constitutes a good episode. Number one: using the Stargate — hence the word 'Stargate' in the title of the show. Number two: plots that make use of me, Daniel, Carter and Teal'c — i.e., SG–1, hence the 'SG–1' in the title, STARGATE SG–1. It really shouldn't be that hard to remember; it's printed on everything from the stage doors to the letterheads on the stationery. Daniel? Please continue."

The archaeologist cleared his throat. "Number three: exploration of other worlds to A) defeat the Goa'uld, B) interact with new cultures, and C) embark on a journey of self–discovery by illuminating basic truths of the human condition, and tapping into cultural archetypes and myth—"

"That's enough for now, Daniel. We don't want to confuse them."

Wrong and Greengolf glanced at each other. "Actually, our main objective is to attract male viewers between the ages of thirteen and forty–nine," Wrong said smugly. "Once we have enough of those, we'll get the go–ahead for the next mov—"

WHACK, WHACK!

"OW!"

"Major Colburn! Please escort Misters Wrong and Greengolf to a holding cell. Further education is definitely indicated."

The executive producers were grabbed by the scruff of their jackets and walked double–time out of the building, their progress marked by shouts of threats and empty promises that they hurled over their shoulders.

Finally, one lone man stood where once there had been a dozen. All eyes were focused on him and he cringed under the scrutiny. "Don't hit me!" he cried.

"Hit you?" O'Neill asked mildly. "Why would I do that? Do you think you deserve to be hit, Blow Malousy?"

The man's beady little eyes glanced furtively at Daniel.

"Hmmm…." mused O'Neill. "Are you feeling a little guilty about Daniel, perhaps? Maybe those 'pocket protector' jokes you've been writing don't seem so funny now?"

"Look," Malousy pleaded desperately, "the rest of SG–1 are professional soldiers; of course the academic is gonna appear emotional and dweeby compared to them."

"Dweeby?"

"Clumsy, oblivious, unimportant…." Malousy's voice trailed off as he heard the snicks of a dozen P90s being switched over from safety on to automatic. He cleared his throat. "An academic has no place on a first contact team," he persisted.

O'Neill glanced at Daniel. The young man's strong biceps flexed as he wrapped his arms protectively around his well–developed chest. Brilliant blue eyes flared as Daniel stared angrily at Malousy, his flawlessly smooth brow beginning to mar with a crease. O'Neill was grim; for this crime alone Malousy deserved to be shot.

"So let me see if I understand you correctly. You think a man who speaks twenty–three languages and is an expert in Earth's ancient cultures and myths is 'unimportant' when a majority of our first contact situations are with a bunch of cultures that have been taken from Earth in the first place? A man who is also an expert in Egyptology — the exact culture that our primary enemy uses as a template for their own civilization — is irrelevant? The man who _opened_ the Stargate in the first place?"

"I'm not saying that there's not a place for him in the SGC, but on a first contact team? Come on! Soldiers, guns, shooting and running! He wears glasses!"

"He carries a gun and has used it on occasion to save my ass. As for running, he's faster than any of the rest of us. What the hell have you got against people who wear glasses, anyway?"

"He's a threat to your authority!"

"How? He's paid to act as my advisor. If his opinion differs from mine, I want to know about it — especially if it conflicts with my plan of action!"

"He doesn't understand how dangerous it is out there! He gets worked up over inconsequentials."

"Inconsequentials?" At first O'Neill didn't understand what Malousy was referring to, but then he remembered a scene from earlier that day. The actor that was portraying Dr. Levant was directed to overact to such an extent he appeared to be near to tears over the rights of some bare–brained aliens. O'Neill's blood went straight to boil.

He grabbed Malousy by the lapel and pushed him backwards until the man was pinned against a fake rock wall. "You gotta lot of damn nerve! You think because a man is intelligent and wears glasses he is nothing but a dweeb? You think that because Daniel believes _to his core_ in the fundamental civil liberties guaranteed by the Bill of Rights — and that such rights should be extended to all sentient beings — he should be laughed at? Do you really think a man who believes passionately in freedom and justice is a _joke?_ "

O'Neill let go of him with disgust. "Oh, that's right: you think the only folks that have rights are white males between the ages of thirteen and forty–nine, and everyone else is 'inconsequential!' Well, listen, buddy! It ain't gonna happen on my watch! TEAL'C!"

The large Jaffa stepped forward, his zat at the ready.

"This one here. Three shots."

A look of unholy satisfaction lit Teal'c's face as he took aim. "It will be my pleasure, O'Neill."

"Wait, Jack!"

Malousy looked smug. He didn't really think a fictional character could hurt him, and besides, here was Jackson interfering with Colonel O'Neill's orders, right on schedule. Of course, considering what was at stake, Malousy wisely decided not to bring this proof of Jackson's character flaw to O'Neill's attention. Maybe later, maybe in a script…. Yeah, he could teach O'Neill a lesson or two about how useless and dangerous Daniel was on first contact team.

"What!" Jack snapped.

"Two," said Daniel.

"Two?"

"Yeah, two shots. You said I could have his head to mummify for my collection in my office. If you shoot him three times there'll be no remains."

"Oh, yeah, right. Thanks for reminding me. Teal'c? Give me two!"

Teal'c activated his weapon. "This will bring me great joy, O'Neill." He stepped closer and with great panache, lifted one elegant eyebrow.

Malousy giggled and slapped his knee. "Man, I _love_ it when you do th—"

Teal'c shot twice in rapid succession, throwing Malousy backwards like a rag doll. The now ex–writer lay motionless.

Applause and wild cheers filled the sound stage. As SG–10 dragged the body off, the actors of WORMHOLE X–TREME! surged forward shouting, laughing and all talking at once.

"I can't believe he's gone! I think he had a crush on my character."

"He made my character a joke. A lame stereotype."

"Doing that stupid eyebrow thing sometimes was the only mention I'd get in a script."

"Why he thought the leader should be dumber than dirt, I'll never know."

"He was making a joke out of all the characters."

O'Neill smiled at their happy faces. "You'll be fine now. Your next scripts will be by writers who'll treat your characters with the dignity they deserve. A team of Earth's brightest and bravest should not be written like a bunch of Seinfeld sitcom characters."

"What a relief! We didn't know what to do."

"Remember, you don't have to take crap like that from people like him."

"It was like he'd mesmerized all the other writers and the scripts kept getting worse and worse."

"He was probably some kind of thought–controlling alien."

"Yeah, that makes sense. An immature one!"

As they talked, the actors slowly walked away, their laughter and enthusiasm cutting through the gloom of the sound stage like sunshine through storm clouds.

When O'Neill looked back, his own team had gathered around him and his smiled deepened. His team always made him swell with pride.

"We have done well, O'Neill."

"Yes, we have, Teal'c."

"That could have been us, sir."

"They were trying, but it's not gonna happen. Not now, not ever. Not while we have each other."

SG–10 opened the side door and hauled Malousy's carcass out. A chill wind slipped inside scattering papers, swinging the light fixtures, and ruffling Daniel's hair. Daniel wrapped his light jacket around his slender frame and hugged himself tightly. His expression was suddenly quite pensive and sad. He spent a lot of time doing research and he recently discovered something that disturbed him. Hell, it disturbed them all. "Jack," he began. "I don't wanna d—"

O'Neill quickly cut him short. "Don't say it, Daniel."

"But, Jack—"

O'Neill faced him squarely and put his hands on Daniel's shoulders, forcing the young man to look only at him. "Do you trust me?"

"With my life." There was no hesitation.

"Then believe me when I tell you I will not let anything happen to you. If they try anything, they'll have to get through Carter, Teal'c, and me first. Did any of those bozos look capable of that?"

Daniel looked to his left and saw Sam: clever, brilliant and slightly bloodthirsty. To his right, stood Teal'c: tall, strong and eager for mayhem. He met Jack's eyes again and saw a man as sharp and deadly as the finest sword, and more cunning than all the enemies they'd yet faced. These three were unmatched in their abilities and they were his friends. No, closer than that, they were his family. He knew no harm would come to him with SG–1 by his side.

A faint smile curved Daniel's lips at the idea that anyone could defeat all three of his friends. "No."

"No? Just no?"

The smile widened, bringing a dimple into existence. "Well, more like 'hell no.'"

"You got that right." O'Neill threw an arm over Daniel's shoulders and pulled him close as he started walking. "Now, let's get back to the mountain. We got planets to save, snakes to slay, Goa'ulds to defeat."

"Polarity fields to reverse," grinned Carter.

"There are many translations that require our assistance, Daniel Jackson."

"And lots of cultures out there that we need as allies. You feel like making friends with some aliens, Daniel?" O'Neill asked as they stepped out into the warm sunlight. He stopped and slipped on his sunglasses.

Daniel blinked at the light and fished his own sunglasses out of his pocket. Translations, cultural liaison, and interpreting Earth's ancient histories; these were his forte and these skills were integral to fulfilling the mandate of the SGC's mission statement. He was a necessary part of this team of kick–ass warriors. "Ya, sure, you betcha, Jack," he said with a confident smile.

O'Neill leaned back slightly and peered at Daniel. "Minnesotan, eh? Is that language number twenty–three or twenty–four?" he asked with a smile.

"Twenty–four, but I'm still trying to nail the accent."

"Keep practicing." O'Neill glanced around and saw that Teal'c and Carter were also standing ready with their sunglasses on. "Okay, campers. Let's get this show on the road. Literally!"


End file.
